


your own dream landscape

by travelling_outside_karma



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Artist Steve Harrington, Body Paint, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Police Officer Billy Hargrove, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 11:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17000913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travelling_outside_karma/pseuds/travelling_outside_karma
Summary: Billy can’t see what Steve is drawing from this position, but if he focuses he can track the swirl of the marker between his shoulder blades; the path of lines as they dance across his spine and over his ribcage. It’s invigorating, being in someone else’s hands — giving himself over and trusting he’ll be treated well.//Billy buys a set of body markers, Steve uses them to draw on Billy.





	your own dream landscape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harringrovecryptid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harringrovecryptid/gifts).



> I adore [peel the scars from off my back](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/13041630?view_adult=true) by [harringrovecryptid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harringrovecryptid/pseuds/harringrovecryptid), and I wanted to create a similar kind of intimacy between Billy and Steve a few more years into their relationship. I hope you enjoy reading this! 
> 
> A massive thank you to the wonderful [lemonlovely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlovely/pseuds/lemonlovely) for beta reading! 
> 
> Title is from _A Sort Of Homecoming_ by U2.

It's the third time he's seen them in the store, the third time he's stopped to pick them up just to put the packet back on the shelf. But it's a Tuesday, and his paycheck has just come in, and they're marked down to half price. Body markers, the packet reads, ‘ _make your body a work of art!’_ The bright colours are visible through the plastic packaging — twelve tones spanning the rainbow. There's even a shiny gold one on the end, beside the black and brown. 

Steve is there when he gets home, helps to unpack the groceries in their tiny kitchen. Billy's heart skips a beat when Steve reaches for the bag with the markers; watches closely the furrow of his brows as he reads the label.

"What's this?" he asks.

"It's uh... they were on sale, and. I was thinking about— if you want, we could try them out, maybe?”

"Oh," Steve frowns, "Okay. Yeah, maybe some other time.”

Billy feels a little stupid, wonders why he bought something marketed for children, hoping for— for what?

The markers are left on the kitchen counter. They stay there until Friday. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve has the afternoon free on Fridays, so he’s there when Billy gets home from the station. He’s been working with Hopper for three years now, he’s settled into a familiar routine where Billy knows exactly what time Murray Bauman drops in every Monday and exactly what to do when Claudia Henderson’s cat gets stuck up a tree. Hopper knows exactly when to offer him a cigarette and Flo knows exactly how he takes his coffee and Callaghan knows the exact worst time to dump a pile of paperwork on his desk.

Fridays are usually pretty easygoing for Billy, but this morning a storm broke out over Hawkins and he’s spent half the day helping those who were stranded and stopping idiots from driving through floodwater.

Billy’s uniform is soaked, his energy is depleted, and his patience is non-existent.

“Long day?” Steve asks.

“Yep.” Billy starts to unbutton his shirt, stripping the damp fabric from his skin.

Steve bites his lip. “Hey, let me take care of you, get you out of these wet clothes.”

“Steve, I’m not really in the mood for—”

“No, I don’t mean that…” He looks away for a moment. Billy follows his line of sight to the markers on the counter. “I thought I could try out those body markers on you, if you’re up for that?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, yeah I’m— but we don’t have to, if you don’t want—”

“I want to.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steve pulls Billy by the hand into their bedroom, guides him until he's laying in the centre of the bed. He's on his stomach, muscular back on display. 

"You gonna turn me into a work of art?" 

Steve settles on top of him and opens the packet of markers, _"Baby,_ you're already a work of art."

"You're such a sap," Billy grumbles. He hides his smile in the pillow underneath him. 

Billy shivers as Steve's fingers brush his scars — dozens of teeth marks from monsters long dead; cigarette burns from a different kind of monster. He tries not to look at them in the mirror, doesn't like to remember the stories behind each mark. 

Hands move over the planes of his back, mapping out the contours of his body from his hips to his shoulder blades. Before Steve, when he was still under Neil’s roof and hand, Billy quickly learnt that being a man meant showing no weaknesses. He’s only ever seen his father cry once, after his mother’s funeral. After that, Neil had always been a stone-cold mask with a concept of masculinity that Billy could never live up to. He’s still unlearning everything that was drilled into him throughout his childhood.

The first brush of the marker sends a tingle down his spine, and Billy feels more vulnerable than he would ever be with anyone other than Steve. He lets himself enjoy the sensation, closes his eyes to focus on the feel of Steve’s hand on his waist and the movement of the marker on his skin. Billy can’t see what Steve is drawing from this position, but if he focuses he can track the swirl of the marker between his shoulder blades; the path of lines as they dance across his spine and over his ribcage. It’s invigorating, being in someone else’s hands — giving himself over and trusting he’ll be treated well.

And Steve does just that. He makes his own marks on Billy's body, covering over skin and scars with an explosion of colour. 

When Steve was in middle school he'd loved art class, had even wanted to join the art club after school. But his parents had pushed him into sports for his extracurriculars, told him that drawing was a waste of time, that it won't get him into college. He'd told Billy about it two years ago, which led to a sketchbook and a set of coloured pencils under the Christmas tree in December. 

Billy wishes he'd known sooner — for Steve, drawing had become something cathartic. As sketches of creatures from the upside down began to fill the pages, nightmares became less frequent. Lately, the pages have been filled with less of the upside down and more with beautiful places, from geometric architecture to flowing landscapes. Sometimes he finds a rough drawing of himself in Steve’s sketchbook, mixed in amongst sketches of the apartment block in the next town over and watercolour paintings of the Californian coastline they visit whenever they can get time off work.

 

"I miss you," Steve says softly, hands still moving over his shoulders, blending together two tones of pigment. 

"We live together," Billy says, lip quirking up just a fraction.

"Yeah, but I hardly see you. Always working.”

 

Billy listens to the click of a cap as Steve swaps to a different colour, and the light touch of the marker soon follows. Steve alternates between using the markers and using his hands until every inch of Billy’s back is covered. He reaches a sensitive spot on his lower back, and Billy didn’t know how tense he was until the firm press of a thumb eases it away.

“Mmh. Feels good.”

“Yeah?” Steve presses his thumb into the same spot, uses a little more pressure.

“Yeah. Tree fell down in the storm, blocked the road outside the Sinclair’s. Took me, Hop, Powell _and_ Mr Sinclair to move it. Back’s aching.”

“Maybe you’re turning into an old man,” Steve teases.

He laughs, “Me? You’re more like an old person. Hoarding newspapers from 1983, buying useless shit from garage sales, driving slower than a grandma…” Billy turns around, weight supported on his elbows, to flash a grin at Steve over his shoulder.

“Whatever, Hargrove.” He dabs a spot of colour onto his nose. Billy scrunches up his nose, but doesn’t rub it away. Steve taps his bicep, “Turn over.”

He rolls onto his back, leaving his chest bared and open for Steve to work on. He can see it better now as Steve picks up the purple marker, draws patterns from his collarbone to his pecs. He switches to blue, moves down to create spiralling lines across his stomach and around his belly button, one hand braced on his hip. Billy tries his best to stay still, focus on the sensation.

It's when Steve swaps to the gold marker and begins tracing along the skin of his lower stomach, ticklish and sensitive, that Billy starts to squirm. Steve's balanced above him, no longer any points of contact apart from the gold marker. It's excruciating to have Steve so close, but without his well-known touch.

"Stop wriggling.” He puts one hand on Billy’s hip to hold him steady.

Steve's halfway through drawing a setting sun, glittery golden and peeking out from his waistband, when the need to have him closer becomes overwhelming.

“You look so good in gold,” Steve says, “beautiful.”

Billy quells the instinct to look away from Steve’s heated gaze. The praise is too much for him.

“Fuck, Steve, _please—”_

Billy pulls him up into a kiss— desperate, rough and raw with need. But Steve slows it down, eases the kiss into something more gentle. It's practiced, familiar, the way their lips move together. Steve's chest is pressed against his, skin against skin, and the ink between them melds into a mess of colour. 

Steve starts to pull back, but Billy follows him, coaxes one last kiss before Steve nips his bottom lip and moves away. With Steve sitting up above him, Billy can see the smudge of colour on his torso.

Steve doesn't seem to mind that the sunset has turned into an abstract blur. There’s shades of blue and purple smeared over Steve’s chest, a speck of pink on his cheek that must’ve come from the spot of colour he left on Billy’s nose. “Let’s get you cleaned up, old timer,” he laughs, pulling Billy up from the bed.

“Then I'll make you something to eat, yeah?" Steve smiles at him in that way that always makes Billy's heart flutter. 

“Yeah, okay.” Billy lets himself be tugged by the wrist towards the bathroom. He wonders how he got so lucky.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I’m on tumblr [@pan-shego](https://pan-shego.tumblr.com) if you ever want to chat or anything!


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